re most
wearying."

"She called on me last week," said Lady Ranscomb. "Newte told her I was
not at home."

The old-fashioned butler, John Newte, a white-haired, rosy-faced man,
who had seen forty years' service with the ducal owner of Blairglas,
served the dinner in his own stately style. Sir Richard had been a good
master, but things had never been the same since the castle had passed
into its new owner's hands.

Dorise endeavoured to be quite affable to the smooth-haired man seated
before her, expressing regret that he was called away so suddenly, while
he, on his part, declared that it was "awful hard luck," as he had been
looking forward to a week's good sport on the river.

"Do come back, George," Lady Ranscomb urged. "Get your business over and
get back here for the weekend."

"I'll try," was Sherrard's half-hearted response, whereat Newte entered
to announce that the car was ready.

Then he bade mother and daughter adieu, and went out.

Dorise could see that her mother was considerably annoyed at her plans
being so abruptly frustrated.

"We must ask somebody else," she said, as they lingered over the
dessert. "Whom shall we ask?"

"I really don't care in the least, mother. I'm quite happy here alone.
It is a rest. We shall have to be back in town in a fortnight, I
suppose."

"George could quite well have waited for a day or two," Lady Ranscomb
declared. "I went out to see the Muirs, at Forteviot, and when I got
back he told me he had just had a telegram telling him that it was
imperative he should be in town to-morrow morning. I tried to persuade
him to stay, but he declared it to be impossible."

"An appointment with a lady, perhaps," laughed Dorise mischievously.

"What next, my dear! You know he is over head and ears in love with
you!"

"Oh! That's quite enough, mother. You've told me that lots of times
before. But I tell you quite frankly his love leaves me quite cold."

"Ah! dear. That reply is, after all, but natural. You, of course, won't
confess the truth," her mother laughed.

"I do, mother. I'm heartily glad the fellow has gone. I hate his
supercilious manner, his superior tone, and his unctuous bearing. He's
simply odious! That's my opinion."

Her mother looked at her severely across the table.

"Please remember, Dorise, that George is my friend."

"I never forget that," said the girl meaningly, as she rose and left the
table.

Half an hour later, when she entered her bedroom,